


The Fourth Time Through

by animefreak



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-03 17:50:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17882420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animefreak/pseuds/animefreak
Summary: The inimitable Cheri Yuconovich finds herself in yet another universe with Napoleon and Illya. This world is going to take some getting used to.





	1. Chapter 1

Some day I will stop shifting worlds, universes … whatever it is I do. But today is not that day. Today I started out dashing down a hallway, careening around a corner and slamming into a very solid Napoleon Solo. I didn’t just slam, I bounced back a couple of steps. 

He didn't budge and he obviously did not recognize me. The soft shimmer of brushed steel walls told me where I was, presuming this was Solo’s usual stomping grounds. He regarded me almost without curiosity. A quick mental catalog of my grubby outfit allowed me not to be insulted. 

It occurred to me that he was very still as he continued to regard me steadily. “Uh, hi. Are you OK?” I finally asked. My nose was beginning to feel a little bruised from contact with his chest. 

“I’m fine,” he assured me, the faintest smile accompanying his words.

It was a wonder he could not hear the cacophony of alarms going off in my brain.

Another man walked up behind me. Turning my head a bit I identified Alexander Waverly, who looked like a kindly old uncle and was anything but. OK, I know the basics of this universe. Somewhere within the mix was a semi-surly Russian rumored to be a KGB mole. While Waverly was far more perspicacious than he looked, I could probably bluff my way down to the parking garage and out if I was lucky. I completely ignored my lack of badge as I turned partially to acknowledge the old man. Terms of respect, not derision.

“Mr. Waverly! I’m Cheri Yuconovich, in from Geneva. I don't think I was expected and I most rudely just crashed into this gentleman."

He regarded me for a moment before nodding. “I wasn’t expecting you until next week, Miss Yuconovich.”

Oh hell. They were expecting me. I needed to get out of there ASAP. “Got through early,” I improvised. “Thought I’d report in early. I can always just take a week off,” I offered, praying the man would just let me go. No such luck. 

“Mr. Solo, would you walk Miss Yuconovich around and then bring her to my office in an hour?”

“Of course, sir.”

Both completely ignored my unkempt state. 

Waverly nodded and walked on. I’d forgotten just how formally polite they could be. Solo offered me his arm, ignoring that I might just dirty his immaculate suit coat. I declined but walked with him.

The various versions of Solo I’d known were fit and athletic. They were pretty much prerequisites for the life of an extraordinary extra-national covert agent./law enforcement type. This one was somehow more than that. There was an odd fluidity to his movement I did not recognize.

There was something very off here. I did not want to stick around to find out what it was, so after a few minutes I asked about where those who drove might find parking.

“In the garage, of course.”

Of course. Except the only versions of this organization I know did not have parking for employees, only for official vehicles. The majority of on site personnel did not drive to work. This was, after all, New York with major transit systems. However, there was a really tiny percentage of a percentage possibility that my personal vehicle had come with me. I was gonna be annoyed if it wasn’t.

He took me down to the garage. Official vehicles everywhere and one smaller item covered with a tarp. The lump looked the right size. Solo caught my left wrist as I reached for a corner of the tarp. 

I could feel the bones grind against each other. I stopped moving. “Yes?”

“Who are you?” Monotones don’t usually sound dangerous. This did.

“I told you --” I managed not to scream. “Solo, break it and have done, or ease off.” I addressed him as though I knew him. Technically, I did.

The grip eased but did not release.

“I am Cheri Christiana Yuconovich, daughter of Marie Helene and Piotr Ivanovich Yuconovich. Apparently, Ellis Island couldn’t figure things out and gave us a new patronymic into the bargain.” I pulled the tarp up as I talked. Underneath was exactly what I was hoping for; a 1985 Harley Davidson hard-tail. The gleaming black paint with delicate silver tracery of spiderweb was so familiar.

“But you’re not the one Waverly is expecting.”

“Probably not,” I agreed as I whisked the tarp aside, popped the hard-side saddle bags to check the contents, close them and threw a leg over the saddle, landing me astride the 500cc vehicle, facing Solo who still had my wrist in his hand.

He frowned. “Why would I let you leave?”

“Because two of me would either be an embarrassment of riches or critical mass.” Let it never be said that I don’t have a sense of humor, although perhaps that line would work better with his partner. My mind kept drifting back to just how masculinely beautiful he was. This version had no scars. NO scars. There was something I was missing, but I really needed to get out of there.

“Look, I’m not a threat. My arrival was accidental.”

“Yet your motorcycle is here.”

I had to agree that it was suspicious and that he had an incredible grasp of the obvious. That did not mean I had to do it aloud. “Well – it follows me like a lost puppy?” Odd mental image, but the Harley and I had history. A great deal of history.

“Could I have my hand back? I’m leaving … before it gets any stranger.” He had no idea how strange it could get. He let go. The engine turned over with a growl and continued rumbling. My helmet had disappeared, but the engine vibration felt perfect. This was the early sixties, very few helmet laws were in place at this point. “You might want to move. I really do not want to damage you, Mr. Solo.”

“You say my name as though we know each other.”

I smiled at that. “Long ago and oh so far away,” I stole a line from a song and let the vehicle roll forward. He moved, stepping back. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.” I refrained from adding ‘we always do’. 

He just regarded me silently, then canted his head a little to one side. I caught a silver reflection in his eyes, a flash and gone, as I moved past him. What the hell was that? No. I needed away. I drove out of the underground garage and into the mid afternoon of New York City. Somethings never change.

At which point I noticed the first differences. I’d been through the 1960s three times and it was generally the same, even if some of the organizations and politics were a little different. Car designs didn’t change, nor did architecture, the industrial revolution, that sort of thing. Only, I could already see design changes. Things were more curvilinear, more elegant vehicles, where fins were sometimes add on looking in the venues I was familiar with, here they weren’t. Any of them. Buildings weren’t so sharp edged in ways that even the softening of time could not emulate. Then I realized that I was seeing really long hair on men in business suits. 

1962 was way too early for the hippie movement to be in full flourish. I puttered onward onward, trying so very hard not to stare at anything. Stopped for a light and that’s when the strange became completely apparent. It was the ears peeking out of the long sleek hair that nearly made my jaw drop open in a most unattractive manner. This was insane. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was seeing elves. 

I decided that some where along the line, evolution had gone slightly wonky and produced tall, slender humans with … tapering ears who probably gave rise to the legends of elves on Earth’s where there weren’t any. That made perfect sense. No it did not, but I was in no position to figure out what I was actually seeing, so I maintained speed and eventually located a gas station where they accepted my American Express card, not noticing that the expiration date was several decades in the future. I was glad mine still had raised numbers on it.

The man behind the small counter did look at me a bit oddly because I charged $2.00 for the almost four gallons of high octane gas I put in the tank. I’d either purchased the monster with a 5 gallon tank, or had one installed. At that exact moment I could not remember which, but I was glad to have the gas. As I returned to my Harley, a Rolls pulled up. A Rolls? In that part of town? When did they build the Silver Wraith? And this ridiculously elegant, silk suit clad, absolutely beautiful white haired, blue eyed, pointed eared male stepped out, gave me an arrogant once over that dismissed my existence immediately and then looked annoyed when I revved the engine. 

He raised an elegant eyebrow. I grinned, gave him a cheeky salute and roared off before he could do more than look a bit sour. I had a really bad feeling about that one, but hoped nothing awkward would happen as I was retreating in good form. Which sounds so much better than fleeing in terror.


	2. Chapter 2

I found a motel that accepted my card, found a diner that did so also, and carried all my stuff into the room before locking up and placing a chair under the door knob. Paranoid much? I unpacked my saddle bags. Three changes of clothes, none of them particularly suitable for the current era. Not for another five years or so, anyway, I thought as I reviewed the jeans and t-shirts. 

Cell phone. Useless. Apple laptop. Also useless. Technically, not completely useless, there were video files on the laptop as well as music on both of them; but neither of them were connectible to anything in this year. The beginnings of the Internet were a decade away. It was so annoying to keep finding myself in the 1960s. If I was going to keep finding myself in another dimension … universe … whatever it was I did, couldn’t I just shift into the same year I left? I was beginning to think I was in an extended version of Ground Hog Day, a cute movie in my original life, but not something I was that fascinated in repeating. 

This made four. I’d run into Solo in two of them previously. One made one of my favorite weird fiction pulp authors look like a walk in the park. This one seemed to have very pretty people with pointed ears. I had a feeling things were going to get awkward and fell asleep wondering if Solo, Kuryakin and the U.N.C.L.E were going to be a part of it.

mfu mfu mfu

Napoleon Solo stalked back into the main portion of UNCLE HQ with a look on his face that sent other agents scurrying to stay out of his way. He headed to Waverly’s office and inquired if he might have a moment of his boss’s time. Waverly’s sleek secretary looked at him, correctly deciphered the blank look on his face and informed Waverly that Mr. Solo was there to see him. 

Waverly looked up from an open file and gave the seemingly younger man a look of enquiry. 

“You knew that was not our Miss Yuconovich.” Statement, not question. 

The older man nodded and waited. 

“Why?”

Waverly regarded him for a moment and relaxed in his chair, picking up his omnipresent pipe and lighting it before replying. “I was curious. She was telling the truth about her name, although, as you discerned, she is not the agent coming to us from the Ukraine.”

Solo took a seat, curious to know what the man was thinking. 

“There was a disturbance around her. She is displaced, I believe.”

The agent nodded. “She said as much. There was a motorcycle in the parking garage. It wasn’t there yesterday.”

Waverly puffed on his pipe for a moment before continuing. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”

“You know where she is?”

“You know we’re keeping an eye on Garan while he’s in New York. She crossed paths with him. If he sensed anything strange about her, she may need our help. Or she could be recruited by the opposition. Garan can be very persuasive.”

“I did offer to dispose of him. He’s not fire proof,” Solo reminded his superior, a touch of bitterness in his voice. Their eyes met and Solo looked away. “You are correct, they don’t need to know about … When is Kuryakin due back?” he switched topics abruptly.

mfu mfu mfu

The object of the question was wondering the same thing as he dangled from chains from an arched ceiling. The place was unfamiliar in it’s particulars, although he knew the general build. He was wondering what he’d done to give himself away when a familiar figure entered the room.

D’Arona Angelicus slid into the room, her black clad figure a dark point in the otherwise light space. Black silk hair fell past her narrow waist, framing her pale face, eyes like points of ice flickering over him as she moved forward. “Well, well, well. How does it feel, trash? To know that we finally have you and there is no escape.”

He actually rolled his eyes at that. It wasn’t as if he’d never heard that line before. “So what is it this time? Still working on the time flux to reverse the world?” 

D’Arona smiled, sharp teeth white against her deep ruby colored lips. “Can’t you guess?” she purred. The tip of her tongue flickering along the edges of the teeth. 

“Let’s see. What do I know? How much pain can you inflict? How long can you keep me alive before your damage kills me?” he offered in a tired voice. “Or is it how much of your deranged ramblings can I withstand before I force you to kill me?” he shook his hair out of his eyes. Unlike most of his kind, he let it run shaggy, not so much to disguise the slightly elongated portion of his ears, but because it was comfortable for him.

“The Trash has such an exaggerated sense of its worth,” she crooned as she looked up at him. “No, we intend to make use of you, little Trash.”

He refrained from responding. He knew they were insane and that anything he said would just push them farther down that road. 

“Nothing to say? Not a smart word? Not a bit of the banter you and the human excel at?”

He exaggerated his look around for the occasional partner she referenced. He couldn’t shrug while he was hanging from his wrists. 

“No? Well, you’ll talk soon enough. We won’t be able to shut you up.” 

She snapped her fingers and he dropped to the ground with barely enough warning not to crack his head when he landed. The chains that came with him snaked around his body securing him again. In spite of her words, she was taking no chances. 

She grabbed a handful of his pale golden hair and yanked his head up at a painful angle. He grunted. “Actually, we have a dark one in our employ, fair haired Trash. One who knows and uses the old ways to remove thorns in our sides, to make them useful to us,” she hissed in his ear. "His name is Thorne.”

He couldn’t control the shudder that ran through him. The dark ones were myth, legends to send children scurrying to their beds, pulling their blankets up over their heads and shiver into the night wishing they could get warm. Still, they were legends, the myths of of the starlight and sunlight breeds who walked now and sometimes sired half-breeds with their human cousins. He was not a child.


	3. Chapter 3

I woke up with a feeling something was horribly wrong. The decor was so 1950s, that for a moment I could not place where I had fallen asleep. Then it hit me, I’d shifted. Again. A litany of impolite words flooded my mind, none of which passed my lips because my tongue felt a bit furry. Toothpaste. I needed to brush my teeth, take a shower and figure out what to do with myself now that I was here. Beating my head against a figurative wall was not helpful.

One hot shower and other morning duties dealt with, I looked at my treasure trove of items again. I made a mental note to carry gold nuggets and other things that might be converted to cash in the future. In fifty years, if things ran the normal way this cycle did, I’d forget before it became an issue again. 

That made me laugh. 

I looked at the news. More pointy ears and long hair, along with normal humans and strange crime. Mind control? I turned the TV off and considered my options. Maybe a cave in Montana would be a good idea. I was considering the life of a hermit living off the land somewhere in the National Forests when a the railroad spike slammed through my head. 

No, it wasn’t a real railroad spike, but it sure as hell felt like one. Or maybe it was a giant sized knitting needle. I’d had one of those shoved into my shoulder by an opponent who was big on knitting at one point. This felt similar, only coupled with blinding waves of pain rippling from impact. What the hell? I very carefully did not shake my head. One of the few hangovers I’d ever had taught me that sharp movements of the cranium were a bad idea when the pain had reached the level where beheading oneself to get rid of it was becoming a realistic consideration.

The sudden cessation of feeling was almost as bad as the pain.

Somewhere during all that I had curled up on the bed. I lay there for a long time trying to figure out what had just happened. Sorting through mental images while dealing with insane pain is not one of my strong points. The only thing I could eventually grasp was an ebony face with pale eyes and gleaming silvery hair. Not black as in persons of African descent, but literally a too pretty narrow black face with eyes that were almost silver staring into my soul, presuming I have one, of course. 

I turned the TV on and flipped through the six channels the TV received, including the local PBS station. No where did I see the kind of face that was fading from my mind. The probability was that the face belonged to the pointy eared faction give the narrow structure, high cheek bones, quantity of hair and the pale eyes; but there weren’t any faces like that showing up in the shows available on the screen.

Wonderful. I was allergic to something that didn’t exist. I shelved the entire episode as a momentary aberration brought on by shifting from where I had been to where I was and went back to contemplating what to do about finding a job and a place to hide when there was a discreet tap at the door. 

I peeked out the provided peep hole and discovered a neatly dressed individual standing outside the door. The face was familiar. Napoleon Solo was waiting patiently as though he hadn’t a care in the world. I opened the door. 

“Mr. Solo.”

He nodded and stepped forward. I retreated to the side of the door and let him in. There is no universe where Mr. Solo is not a confident and some times pushy individual. Starting an issue here and now did not seem particularly wise. He gestured for me to close the door behind him. 

“Miss … Yuconovich.”

“Yes,” I confirmed what seemed like a question to my ears. It was that slight pause between the Miss and my surname that gave that impression. 

“The name isn’t Russian, no matter how much it sounds like it.”

“Ellis Island.”

“Has no record of anyone of that name in the last ten years.”

Yet they were expecting this world’s version of me with exactly that name when I stumbled into their headquarters. Odd. “Maybe you didn’t go back far enough?” I shot back brightly. We were still standing there, him a few feet inside the room and me with my back against the door. 

We were not off to a good start and that’s when the ice pick drove deep into my brain. This time I was aware of hitting my knees and grabbing my head with both hands in reaction to the sudden attack. It was an attack. I could see the pale eyes again even though my own were closed. I was vaguely aware of a keening sound. Some time later I would realize it was me, but right now it was confusing in the agony of whatever was happening to me. None of this was normal.

Warm hands closed over my own and something like golden honey flowed into me, breaking whatever the link was I had developed with what was happening. For just a moment, I knew that what I was feeling was not an attack on me but on someone else and somehow I was linked to the person being attacked. That made no sense to my overloaded synapses and I passed out. 

I woke up to a cold compress being applied to my forehead and a pair of deeply concerned looking dark eyes. The rest of the face resolved itself into that of Napoleon Solo as he sat on the side of the bed. I blinked at him. 

“What the fuck just happened to me?” I am nothing if not direct and blunt. The profanity seemed to startle him. Oh, right. 1962. I wasn’t entirely certain any level of female above sewer rat used those words in mixed company. I did not care.

“I was going to ask you that, although not in those exact terms.”

I couldn’t help it, I rolled my eyes at him. In very few words and as few syllable as I could manage I gave him the gist of the agony inducing vision. Another person might have missed the flicker of recognition in his eyes. So, this was a known quantity, although not exactly as I had experienced it. 

I forestalled his next words. “Don’t bother lying to me. If you’re prohibited from explaining what I felt and saw, fine. But don’t tell me you don’t recognize what I described.”

“Who are you?” His tone said he didn’t believe a word I said about my identity.

“Fine. My name is Cheri Christiana Yuconovich. I was born in a farmhouse outside Rouen in 1902 and this is the fourth dimension I’ve visited without really trying or wanting to. Which makes me about … uhm …” I paused for a quick mental calculation which refused to add up for a moment. “Somewhere in the region of 210 plus or minus a couple of years. Satisfied?”

He looked grim. “You’re an immortal,” he answered without much inflection in his voice. 

“It looks that way. Now, do you have an explanation to give me or are you just gonna let me stay in the dark, so to speak?”

One of his charming smiles flickered across his lips. “Dark is very accurate. We were not aware of any of the Dark Elves still living. What you describe sounds very like an attempt to assert mind control over a resistant party. My sometimes partner has gone missing, and you, who are not our Ukrainian agent, arrive unannounced, riding a motorcycle that does not exist. You can see where that could excite my suspicions?”

“Excite? I’d call that ignition, actually. Wait. Your partner is a medium height, blondish, blue eyed Russian named Illya Kuryakin? And he’s missing? That’s never good.”

He stiffened at my blurted out knowledge. 

I seemed to be rolling my eyes at him a lot. That made me chuckle. “Look, the last two universes I was in, you were partners, you worked for the U.N.C.L.E. and I started out working with you only to realize I could do more damage if I joined the other side. The second shift I decided to start Heroes for Hire instead since the person who should have started it was already dead.” I ignored just how much of a non sequitur that last sentence was while I waited for him to make a decision based on very little information about how trustworthy I was. 

Silence built between us. I could see he was thinking but had no idea what those thoughts were all about. 

Finally, I broke the silence. “What can I do to help?”

Luckily, that’s one of those sentences that stops people building walls. He relaxed a bit and shook his head as though he was having a hard time believing what he was hearing. 

“It sounds like you have a link to whoever is being tortured.”

I refrained from pointing out what a grasp of the obvious he seemed to have. “And?” I prompted. 

“We may be able to use the link to track the victim.”

“Great. I get to be a GPS,” I muttered. The term meant nothing to him. “A tracking device,” I amended wryly. “OK, so how do we do this? So I can get disentangled and go become a hermit.” I tried to ignore the raised eyebrow this produced. “You have elves,” I pointed out. “I’m not used to elves. I have no understanding beyond several layers of mythology about elves. And fantasy writings and movies. I think a cave in Montana sounds good just at the moment.”

“You’d have to purchase it from a dwarf,” he pointed out. 

I made a silent plea with the universe that H.P. Lovecraft was not a historian in this universe. I didn’t think I could handle tentacles and elves and dwarves.


	4. Chapter 4

Illya pried his eyes open to find it dark and quiet. That could be a problem. Quiet was always a problem where the opposition was concerned, it meant they were plotting something, usually to his discomfort when he was in the situation he now found himself in. At least the chair was padded. 

He rummaged around in his head for a moment and stiffened. A drow. There had been a dark elf here trying to get into his mind. No, not trying, succeeding. He searched his memories in as close to a panic as he was capable of getting. In his mind but there was something else. No, someone else. He shook his head trying to clear his thoughts and discovered that this was a bad idea. Blinding headache. If he believed in miniature dwarves capable of pounding away inside his head, he would be looking for a way to removed his head. 

He calmed his breathing, centered down and could not manage to get the pounding to stop. Maybe if he concentrated on getting free …

In a room not far away, Victor Thorne nursed his own headache. He had done his best to get Illya to submit to him, to master the half elf. Yet something stood between them, shielded the half-breed. He slammed back a tankard of ale. 

“You were not successful.” Angelicus did not ask, she stated. “How could you not break the Trash?” She stopped moving as the pale eyes fastened on her. 

“You told me he was weak, that he was not protected by clan. You liked.” His voice was monotone. He did not threaten, but he did not sound pleased. 

“He is Trash,” she reiterated. “Half blood. Sullied by the blood of human in his line. There is no way he can resist.”

He regarded her for a moment longer before looking away. “You do not know.”

“Do not know what?”

“He has clan. He is supported.”

“It is not possible. He is an orphan. Both the weakling mother and his father were killed in the last war. No one claims him. It is why he pairs with that incomprehensibly lucky human,” she sneered. 

“Green eyes. Black hair. The face of a fallen angel. I could see her in his mind. I caused her pain, but neither of them broke. I will try again, but if he is backed by clan, it will take time.” He stared at her. “I understood you were on a time table.”

“I am. We are. The project is,” she finally agreed. “If you cannot control him, kill him.”

Thorne nodded. “Understood. You know my fee for a kill.” 

She nodded. It was going to wreck her budget for the next couple of years, but it would be worth it. Especially if the unutterable Kuryakin and Solo were put paid to. That worked. Explaining it to her auditor, possibly not so easy. She shrugged her possible worries off and walked out of the room leaving the drow to nurse his headache.

Mfu mfu mfu

“Better?” Solo asked as he took the cup of tea from her hands. He noted they were no longer shaking, always a good sign. 

She thought about it for a moment and then nodded carefully, waiting for the icepick to return. “Much. What the fuck?”

There was that word again. He frowned at her. 

She caught the look and grinned. “Not used to ‘ladies’ using foul language?” she correctly analyzed.

“Not that particular usage,” he agreed.

“Well, it’s short, explosive and fricative so it’s … useful,” she ended with a grin. “Things change and I’m not exactly used to being here … again.” She sighed. “So, now what do we do?”

“We retrieve my partner.”

“OK. And just how are we going to locate him to do that?”

“Just yell when your head hurts again.”

She gave him a very darkling look. “I need a drink.”

Napoleon looked around. He was perfectly capable of being courteous and handing her a cup of water, or alcohol. He located the paper wrapped small glass, unwrapped it, and, as he could find nothing else, filled it from the tap in the tiny bathroom before handing it to her. 

She looked at it for a long moment before sipping the contents. “Well, at least the water doesn’t taste funny,” she muttered. She set the glass aside and stretched out on the bed. “We could watch TV?”

“You should get some rest.”

“I should get some breakfast,” she countered, ignoring that her head still twitched a bit when she moved. 

Before they could leave the room, the dwarven anvil choir returned, blinding her with the sudden onslaught of agony. Cheri hit the floor clutching her head. Napoleon shoved her onto her back, pulling her face up to his. 

“Open your eyes,” he practically roared. 

In surprise, she did, locking gazes with the silver eyes above her. Finding here head in the middle of a two way conversation was more than a little weird and painful. The contact broke, the pain snapped off, leaving her gasping. She managed not to cuss as Napoleon dragged her to her feet and shoved her out the door of her room. 

“Get in,” he ordered as he unlocked the passenger door before going around his late model car and getting in behind the wheel. 

“Where are we going? And you do realize I’m unarmed? And what the hell did you do?” she demanded. 

“Found out where my partner is,” he told her as he slipped into traffic. 

“And you’re dragging me along? Why?”

The stopped at a red light and he turned his head to look at her. “You have a connection with Illya.”

“No.”

He met her denial with a sigh as traffic started moving again. “Yes. That or you have a connection with the person torturing him. Whichever it is, that connection allowed me to find him. We’re going to relieve the opposition of his presence and then we’re going to figure out why you’re here.”

“I already know that one. There’s a nasty little trickster god who thinks this is amusing and keeps moving me around.” She slouched into her seat, ignoring the anomalies of the scenery outside. “OK. I’ll help. Then I’m leaving town.” She quelled an urge to quote a character in the play Brigadoon. His attempt to suit action to words had not gone well. “Where are we going?”

“South.”

Their objective turned out to be a warehouse, neatly landscaped outside and looking prosperous. Cheri sank down farther in her seat as she observed the number of pointy ears wandering around the place. “The elves are the bad guys?” she said, more to herself than to the man driving the car.

“Some of them remember when they ran things. They resent the turn the world has taken when humans developed technology that came close to duplicating what they can do with magic. They resent technology that can stop them.”

She tried very hard to keep her lower jaw from dropping open as she started at Napoleon’s profile. “They … why don’t they just adopt it?”

He smiled a bit ruefully. “That is exactly what THRUSH does.”

“Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and Subjugation of Humanity,” she muttered and then chuckled. “Actually makes sense if the elves are behind it,” she continued. 

“We don’t know that the elves are actually behind it,” Solo corrected as he located a parking spot and pulled into it. “Just that there are a number of once powerful high ranking elves who have joined their ranks.”

He got out and waited her her to join him. She felt a little conspicuous in long sleeved t-shirt, jeans and black leather cowboy style boots, although she admitted her usual tank top and moccasin boots would have been more noticeable given the number of well tailored suits she’d seen as they cruised past the warehouse.

“Now what?”

“We find a way in.”

She nodded. “OK. I have an idea.”

His eyebrows rose. Something told him he was not going to like her idea.


	5. Chapter 5

Sometimes the best way to attack a situation is from the front. Especially when you don’t know the lay of the land or where what you’re looking for is being held. There were, admittedly, a lot of well groomed elves in the area. However, with an expensive black trench coat cinched over my unusual garb, a small caliber gun in hand and Solo obviously wearing handcuffs, they did not question our approach until we got to the door. 

I tried very hard not to laugh at the black jumpsuits the guards were just too much. I tried just walking past them and discovered I don’t understand elvish. 

“What the hell? I’ve got a present for the boss. This is Solo. I suggest you find someone who can make decision and find them now.” I didn’t raise my voice, although I did make certain I enunciated very clearly. Oh the glare I got. 

Luckily, a human stepped out before I lost my temper. He took one look at Solo, got a look of great glee on his face and ushered us into the building. That probably did not bode well for Solo, had I actually been the person I was about to impersonate. It occurred to me that I did not know that the Kropotkin existed here. Winging it was frequently the name of the game. 

The inside of the warehouse was astonishing. Outside, utilitarian; inside, soaring and beautiful, like something out of … a fantasy movie. A really good, lots of incredible architecture, fantasy movie. I fought really hard not to let my mouth drop open in awe. We were escorted to an open area that looked to be someone’s office, maybe. We waited.

After what seemed like an eternity, we were joined by a woman who was the antithesis of the elves I’d seen so far. Hair the same color as mine, eyes like pits in her face … that was a little poetic, but it seemed accurate. For a moment I wondered if she was a vampire and then realized all the sunlight flooding the place pointed to a negative on that. She fixed her eyes on Solo and spoke to me.

“You come bearing a priceless gift, yet I do not know who you are.”

“Name’s Kropotkin. I understand there is a fee for bringing this one to you.” I dropped into a deep Russian accent. 

Her eyebrows rose slightly as she turned her attention to me. That nasty multi-legged thing with ice cubes for feet raced up my spine to nest in my hairline and raise my hackles. This one was not just trouble, I was probably going to have to kill her. I’d been here less than a full 24 hours and I was contemplating killing people. It never changes.

“A fee,” she repeated quietly. “And why should we pay you anything?”

“Because I am holding cocked gun and you are not.” I smiled. 

She didn’t quite laugh at me, but it was close. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“The person who is going to lose out on interrogating or killing Mr. Solo because she is penny pincher,” I answered the question, keeping up the subterfuge of the Russian accent. Well, it wasn’t really lying, my father was Russian and I grew up with three languages. 

“Indeed. How are you planning on leaving?”

I hoped the sigh was eloquent enough. “I will kill everything that gets in my way and Mr. Solo, because he is your enemy, will help me. Won’t you?” The last was addressed to Solo, although I never took my eyes off the woman. The gun shifted slightly to aim between the two targets in the room. 

“I … ah … concede that the latter prospect does seem likely,” he agreed. 

“You are not one of our people.”

“True. So?”

“Arrogant,” she ground out, now meeting my gaze directly. 

Ice cubes raced up and down my spine, the critter chittering in terror, none of which showed on my face. There was something really wrong about this woman, aside from the pointed ears and the serrated teeth. Serrated teeth? I fought not to get distracted. Reminded myself that this was not the universe I started in and that, as usual, all bets were off, except the ones I backed myself.

“Confident,” Mr. Solo corrected her. 

“Do we have a deal?” I asked. 

“Come with me.” She walked away fully expecting us to follow.

Solo and I exchanged a look. There didn’t seem to be much choice here. I stepped past him, tugging on the handcuffs. It looked like I was urging him to move. I wasn’t. We walked along behind her until we came to a room that must have been the offices of the warehouse before THRUSH took it over. Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and Subjugation of Humanity. Over blown hyperbole for ‘I wanna rule the world and abuse people when I want to’ instead of something reasonable. I’d actually worked for them in the last universe. By the time I left, the world was an oddly better place and most of the crazies were not a part of the organization.

I was sort of trying to make sense of elves and technology as we stopped at the door to the room and Angelicus reached for the door handle. 

“I said I was to be left ...” the pale haired elf who yanked the door open stopped in mid sentence. “You.” He was staring at Solo. 

“Still alive, I see,” Solo responded quietly as he went still. Inhumanly still. 

I had missed something somewhere. Solo’s cuffs fell off as both he and the matte black elf assumed fighting stances and raised empty hands into position. Angelicus took a couple of steps back from the two of them. I followed suit just because I had no idea what was going on.

The dark elf’s eyes flickered to me and back to Solo, and then back to me, widening as they did so. “You are clan?” He sounded incredibly disbelieving.

I had no idea what to say to that. Which was why my mouth surprised me when it said: “Family don’t end with blood.” I was quoting a guilty pleasure of a TV show from another universe. Everyone was suddenly staring at me. “What?” There was no way I could train my gun on all three of them and where the hell was Illya?

Solo’s chuckle caught us all off guard as he relaxed. “Your headache is linked to Kuryakin and is how you’re protecting him. Among the elves, family and clan are paramount importance. Somehow you and Kuryakin are connected.” He was looking thoughtful. Solo and thoughtful are never a good combination for the object of their scrutiny. Except maybe Angelique. He shifted his gaze back to the dark skinned elf. “I want my partner.”

That wasn’t a request, that was more a demand or an order. 

“Thorne,” Angelicus said from somewhere to the side of me. “Are we facing what I think we’re facing?”

Thorne snorted. That was apparently the answer she was looking for. She ordered him away from the door.

He tipped his head to one side in reaction. “I’ve been paid.” 

“Unexpected intrusions,” Solo answered him.

I really did not like the intonation on that, which meant leveling my gun at this Thorne seemed like a good idea. Elves were killable, weren’t they? I did not feel like asking that out loud, it would be even more of a give away that I was not the Kropotkin, assuming there was a Kropotkin to … I disengaged from that thought process and noted that Thorne was stepping away from the door. 

Leaving the somewhat malleable stalemate, I shot through the door to find the disheveled Kuryakin lying on the floor practically cocooned in silver-white chains; thick chains. I leaned over to see how to undo them, barely brushing them with my fingertips. The ends popped loose. The chains loosened and he worked his way out of them with little help from me until the well muscled, half dressed Kuryakin was free and accepted a hand to get up.

Our eyes met, green and blue, and locked. Electrical shocks come in a lot of varieties, this was the sort that is more psychological than physical.

“Hi. I’m Cheri. Your partner is outside having a stand off with a black skinned elf and one with black hair … He’s not human, is he?”

The gaze dropped and he padded out of the room without answering my question.


	6. Chapter 6

“Illya!” Napoleon Solo caught sight of his partner as he walked out of the room the drow had exited. He quelled the elation he felt that the half-elf looked no worse for wear than he usually did. “Waverly was worried when you didn’t check in.”

It was such a logical explanation. They both accepted it without demure. Illya glared at Thorne. “We will meet again.”

Thorned bared his teeth in something that was not a smile, nodding as he closed with Angelicus. “A rematch will be … interesting. Perhaps when you have severed your connection to clan.” He turned away before he caught the surprise on the Russian’s face.

Napoleon caught the look and turned away. Clan was very important to the elves. It was something the two of them had never discussed and he was not certain he wanted to start now. “Are we free to go?” he asked blandly as the two elves walked away.

Angelicus glared at him. “Go,” she spit at him, venom in her eyes as well as voice. 

He caught Illya’s arm and pushed the more slightly built half-elf in the direction he and the woman had come in. They exited smoothly and ran for the car before someone changed their minds on letting them go. Illya collapsed into the backseat leaving Cheri the passenger side as Napoleon got behind the wheel.

“I think we need to move. Now.”

Napoleon nodded and pulled out onto the street as half a dozen heavily armed and uniformed elves poured out of the gate behind them. He gunned the engine and left the scene before they could open fire. 

“Never a dull moment with the two of you,” she observed. “Could you drop me back at the motel?” She met Solo’s sideways glance. “I’ve been up for some time, faced down an entire THRUSH installation including someone you were about to throw down with, and walked out with both you and your partner whom we rescued. Not a scratch on anyone, but the adrenaline burns calories and I have not had anything to eat this morning.” She thought about it for a moment. “OK, Kuryakin is mussed, but we didn’t get shot or … magicked … or whatever it was that Thorne does, on the way out and I’m starving.”

She got one of Solo’s smiles in profile as he nodded and acceded to her request.

A few minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot, stopping in front of the room she’d rented. Ever the gentleman, Solo pulled a blanket over his lightly snoring partner, locked the doors and escorted Cheri to her room where she’d left her wallet and all the technically not unctioning plastic. Still, it had her driver’s license which would pass muster at a cursory glance. 

“You don’t have to walk me to my door.”

“I’m a gentleman,” he pointed out, taking the key from her hand and unlocking the door. Ever the security conscious agent, he stepped in ahead of her, and came to a stop.

“Well, this is interesting,” commented a woman’s voice, heavily accented. “Mr. Solo, I was hardly expecting you to have looked into my impersonator as Mr. Waverly indicated he did not think the situation was serious enough to commit personnel to, much less a senior agent such as yourself.”

Cheri peered around her companion and blinked. Sitting on the side of her bed, the contents of the Harley’s saddle bags strewn across the top of the bedspread, was a blonde woman who’s face she knew well, given how frequently she looked in the mirror. 

“Kropotkin?” she said softly.

“I am Cheri Yuconovich,” the blonde corrected her, training a .22 pistol on what little she could see of the dark haired woman. “And, you, I presume, are the impostor.” Her voice was cold.

Cheri stepped out from behind Solo, nudging him forward so she could close the door behind them. “Not exactly. I am Cheri Christiana Yuconovich, daughter of Marie Helene Verte and Piotr Christian Yuconovich. The surname got mangled at Ellis Island. No idea why Dad did not get it straightened out at some point. Always figured he was White Russian before there was such a designation.”

Both the woman and Solo looked a bit nonplussed by the ‘White Russian’ thing. Cheri waited.

“You are saying your family emigrated to the United State? When?”

“1899 … ,” Cheri paused to think for a moment. “1898? No, Sue was … Oh, crap, I don’t know. I wasn’t born yet.”

“And just where were you born?” 

“Do not purr at me in that tone of voice. I was born in a farm house just outside of Rouen. Doesn’t exist any more. Bombed out of existence during the war.” 

The other Cheri relaxed. “Interesting. I am Cheri Piotrovna Yuconovich. I am born in the Ukraine.” She pronounced it Oo-kra-ina, much closer to the Russian pronunciation than the American.

Cheri just nodded. “Well, now that we have that settled, I need my wallet and to go find food.” She stepped over to the bed and swept up her wallet, driver’s license and the multitude of odd things she kept in the leather bifold item besides the credit and debit cards, neatly slotting things into the provided slits as she moved back toward the door. She held out her hand to Solo for her key and was a little surprised when three hundred dollars was tucked into her hand with them.

“Diners don’t generally know the exchange rate,” he said quietly, meeting her gaze directly and not letting it drift to the blonde who was now standing beside the bed. “It’s been … ah … interesting. Perhaps we will meet again.”

“If you get to New Mexico, look me up.” She looked back at the blonde. “Oh, could you just scoop that stuff back into the bags, please? Don’t have to be neat, but I’d rather nothing wandered off. Thanks.” With that she walked out of the room and across the street to the diner. 

This left Cheri and Solo to toss the things back into the saddlebags per the request made. Napoleon frowned at the blonde. “She’s not THRUSH.”

“No, I suppose not. But that does not explain her being here and this.” Cheri P. gestured to the items on the bed. “Nor does it explain what I found in her wallet. Plastic cards with names and expiration dates on them.”

“Credit cards?”

“Expiring well into the next century. And this.” She pointed to a slim silver thing with what looked like an apple with a bite out of it centered on the top. She hooked a fingertip under the upper edge and pulled the top up. Inside what looked like some kind of screen and a keyboard appeared. “This is not a typewriter.”

The keyboard was arranged like the keys of a typewriter, although the number keys, were a line across the top and then arranged like a calculator to one side. Solo nodded his agreement, touching the corner of the lid lightly. He sensed electricity. How very interesting. 

“And this. What is this?” She handed him the other Cheri’s iPhone. As she did, something at one edge depressed under her touch and the screen lit up. There was a picture of a horse over which the time and day showed, as well as some other tiny pictures. The words ‘Press home to unlock’ appeared across the narrow end of the device just above a fingertip circle which she pressed again to reveal a number pat and ‘enter passcode’. 

The door opened behind them. 

“Mine,” Cheri said as she deftly extracted the phone from her almost double’s hand. With a sigh, she closed the lid on the larger device and shook her head at them. “I knew I was forgetting something.” She tucked the phone in a pocket and shoved the other device into the saddlebag that seemed to be fitted with a cushioned pocket constructed to fit it before attempting to usher the two of them out of her room. 

“Well? Nothing to see here. Move along.”

Solo grinned at her. “Technology?”

She rolled her eyes at both of them, took each by an elbow and walked them over to the door and gently shoved them out of her room. “You have a partner who needs to get to medical. And you probably need to check in to find out what you’re assigned to now that you’re here … early?”

The two women glared at each other. 

“I am not early.”

“Waverly’s not expecting you until next week,” Cheri C. corrected her. “You’re not the right Cheri either, are you?”

The woman bared her teeth in a snarl and just missed the opportunity to shoot Cheri C with the little gun everyone seemed to have forgotten until just now. Cheri’s hold on her wrist ground the bones together, making her drop the gun. That was just the beginning. Both women were well trained in hand to hand combat, one more flowing in Oriental style while the other favored the sort of thing one might pick up in the SAS. 

Napoleon just stepped back and let them fight it out until Cheri was literally dangling the blond over the balcony railing. “I think you’ve made your point,” he said as he stepped forward and grabbed the arm that was flailing to get a purchase. He hauled the blonde back up onto the balcony. “I can take this from here.”

The cold look made him stiffen slightly. For just a moment, he thought he might get a fight of his own. Then she opened her hand and released the blonde’s wrist. 

“It’s probably broken,” Cheri observed distantly. “Get her away from me.” She looked up at Solo and the cold thawed. “I’d be very careful, if I were you. See you around.”

Closing and locking the door to her room, she set off for the diner again.


	7. Chapter 7

I sat in the diner, had a pot of hot tea and a meal of completely forgettable food. Technically, that probably isn’t fair to the diner. There was so much roiling around in my brain it was a wonder my fork and my mouth got together. So, this universe’s Yuconovich was still Russian … or Ukrainian, and probably wasn’t immortal and made my brain hurt.

On top of which, Illya had pointed ears, but otherwise looked pretty much the same as he had in the other universes I dealt with. Waverly was human, than whatever deity was listening. Solo was … maybe not human. He was very solid, very muscular under the tailored suit, and capable of being far more still than most humans could manage, even very, very well trained ones. That coupled with the silver gleam that touched his dark eyes occasionally, meant that he was probably not completely human either. And then there were the THRUSH elves. 

I’d never run into elves before. They were legends, mythology, high fantasy. The stuff mid-twentieth century writers made popular that were then turned into mouthwatering gorgeous characters on screen the beginning of the 21st. The reality of long hair, pointed ears and three piece suits was making funny little noises in my head. I had not been here long enough to assimilate anything. 

And then there was Thorne. 

Back in my original universe I’d run into Victor Thorne, not with black skin, pale eyes and pointed ears. One of the deadliest assassins on the planet. He killed me twice before we sorted him out. And the sorting only happened because I confronted him after the second kill. I still remember how pale he got when he saw me. He was perfectly fine with accepting the sentence for attempted murder to be safely tucked away in a high security prison for over a decade. Mind you, he did think I was a vampire. 

This Thorne … I did not know what to make of him, any more than I knew what to make of high fantasy characters running an organization dedicated to technology. They weren’t using magic, except maybe Thorne when he faced Solo. 

I wasn’t subject to migraines, but my head was starting to pound. I ordered a soda to go and got looked at strangely. I left without the drink and pondered where to find a cold soda in a vending machine. There was one sitting next to the door to the lobby of the motel. I grabbed a couple of bottles of Coke and retired to my room. There was a tiny bottle in the bottom of one of my saddle bags with two brown pills left in it. They stopped the headache after a few minutes. 

Sunlight streamed in the windows. I’d forgotten what a city without some smog level looked like. It was high time I hit the road. 

I straightened up the room, made sure I had all my goodies packed into my saddle bags, and turned in the key. As I stepped back out to claim my Harley, it was surrounded by three black sedans and several black clad, long haired, pale skinned types that might have been vampires if they weren’t standing in the sun without bursting into flames. So far, I had not been anywhere that sunlight and vampires were not mutually exclusive.

Standing in the shadows, I scowled at the crowd. The other option was one I did not want to deal with, but I also did not want to lose my motorcycle and the things that came with it. I stretched my neck side to side and walked over to my bike. Five faces focused on me. Pale eyes, pale brows, sleek pale hair and three piece suits were really creepy. “Is there something I can do to … for you?”

The back seat window on one of the sedans rolled down and the black haired female we’d met earlier leaned forward. “You can get in the car.”

“No.”

“It was not a request,” she prompted.

“You’re point?” I wondered briefly if .25 caliber bullets would put a hurt on these guys. It looked like I might be about to find out. 

“Oh, there you are, Miss Yuconovich,” the smooth tones of Napoleon Solo almost made me jump out of my boots. They had a similar effect on the people in front of me. I swear the bitch … woman … in the car hissed at him.

“Mr. Solo,” I identified without turning my head to confirm. “What’s up?”

“Mr. Waverly has a couple of questions for you.”

“Really.” My answer was dry. If he wasn’t just rescuing me from the bad guys, there was going to be trouble. “Then I guess I’ll follow you over,” I agreed as I elbowed my way past one of the thugs (elf thugs … there were more of those little snapping and popping sounds in my head) and threw a leg over my ride. Then I looked at him. There was a very large automatic pistol trained on the woman in the car. 

“You will excuse us, won’t you?”

She hissed something at her troops and they faded into the other two cars, pulling away to leave me enough room to get out of the parking lot. I roared out of the lot, into the street and went right into an opening in traffic, ignoring whatever Solo wanted. I was leaving town and doing so before I got entangled in the mess that was UNCLE and THRUSH in this world. 

Gunfire broke out behind me. There was an alley that linked up to the motel’s parking area. I puttered up to the corner of the building and peeked around it. Yep, my rescuer was pinned down. I took several shots at the forces I could see, hitting one squarely in the back. Faced with gunfire from two directions, they fled the scene, taking the body with them. 

Solo stood, brushing invisible dust from his suit as I puttered up and glared at him. “Need a ride?”

“No. My car’s there,” he said, nodding to the tidy dark two seater. 

“Vroom, vroom.”

He smiled at that. “It does,” he confirmed. “Waverly would like to talk to you.”

“Yeah. No. I’m out of here. Thank you for the rescue, you’ve definitely settled the rescue debt between us. If you’re ever in New Mexico … don’t look me up, OK?”

That got a chuckle and he nodded. I stayed long enough to make sure he got into his car safely. We left, me turning right and him turning left. I heaved a sigh of relief as I headed out of town and into the westering sun. That was that. 

I really wish I had noticed the dark elf standing in the shadows of the alley next to the diner.


End file.
